We spent the evening the way we often did—curled up on opposite ends of the couch, a movie humming softly in the background, more companion than focus. We laughed at familiar scenes, drifted into easy conversations, and let comfortable silences settle without pressure. It was one of those rare nights that feels warm simply because it exists. When the credits rolled and it was time for him to leave, the air subtly shifted, as if the moment itself sensed it was about to change.
At the door, I leaned in for a quick, instinctive goodbye. He gently stepped back. There was no tension, no harshness—just hesitation. He smiled, promised to talk soon, and walked toward his car. I stood there longer than I meant to, watching his headlights fade, confusion and embarrassment quietly replacing the comfort from earlier.
